Chapter Text
When Minho first meets Jisung, he’s been given six months to live.
“Could be a year, if he’s lucky,” says Chan, the man who answers the door for Minho and introduces himself as Jisung’s best friend.
Jisung, the tiny, wisp of a thing sitting in a wheelchair with a pink beanie on his head and a green knit blanket covering his lap, smiles mildly. “Channie’s an optimist,” he says. He waits until the other man walks into a different room to add, “I’ve never been lucky.”
Chan comes back a moment later, balancing three mugs of tea in his hands—green; for the immune system, he’d said. Minho moves to help him, but Chan shakes his head and gestures for him to sit down on the living room couch.
“Brain tumor,” Jisung says as if he’s announcing the weather—mild today, typical for early March. Minho looks at him, then at Chan, who places the mugs down on the coffee table with practiced ease. “Terminal,” Jisung adds, just as easily.
Chan grabs two blankets—both knit as well—from a neat pile on the far side of the couch, keeping one for himself and offering the other to Minho, then sits heavily in an armchair next to Jisung’s wheelchair, a tight expression on his face. “It was a shock,” he says, his voice low. “Sung had been feeling off for a few months—getting really bad headaches, super fatigued. I thought he was just working himself too hard, but it kept getting worse. Eventually he went to the doctor, but at first they didn't even know what was wrong with him. Tried a couple different migraine meds until he got referred to a neurologist. They did a scan and—well.” He reaches for his mug and takes a bracing sip of his tea. “We definitely didn’t expect… this.”
He speaks in a way that tells Minho as much about the diagnosis as it does about his and Jisung’s relationship. They’re close: best friends, like Chan said, but also perhaps something more. Not romantic, Minho can ascertain that easily enough. But still something deeper—devoted and familial, even though Minho knows they’re not related. Brothers, by choice if not blood. A brother of which Chan is fiercely protective.
Jisung doesn’t pitch in as Chan narrates, explaining: they found out a little over a year ago; Jisung has already gone through several rounds of chemo and radiation treatments; they worked for a bit at first, until they just… didn’t.
No, Jisung just listens, detached, his hands wrapped around his mug but not drinking. We’ve told this story a hundred times before, his expression emanates, I no longer care about participating.
When Chan gets to the part where the doctors said Jisung’s prognosis is six months, Minho leans forward slightly. “How did you feel when you found out?” he asks Jisung, voice gentle but direct.
Jisung just shrugs. “Shocked, obviously,” he says, with a nonchalance not fitting someone who found out they were going to die at 27. “I cried a lot. Got sad. Got mad. Then did all the typical things you’re supposed to do.”
“Which are?” Minho asks the question for the sake of it. It’s what he’s supposed to do. He doesn’t expect to hear anything new; he knows the answers by now. But it’s part of the process.
“Throw myself into healing,” Jisung says.
As expected.
He goes on, “I did all the treatments, changed my diet, started meditating… kept up a positive attitude.” He pauses, then shrugs again. “It didn’t work. So then I just kind of… resigned myself to it.” His lips curve into a faint, ironic smile. It’s heart shaped, Minho notices. “Why throw a fit when I can’t change anything?”
Minho nods, understanding. He’s seen this before—the calm acceptance that some people find after exhausting all their options. It’s not apathy, though it could easily be mistaken as such.
Case in point, Chan looks at Jisung exasperated. “I still can’t believe you’re so calm about it.” He glances at Minho briefly before staring into his mug, frowning down at the steaming liquid. “Wouldn’t you think… I mean, isn’t it normal to be more… upset?”
Minho considers his words. “People react in all kinds of ways,” he says carefully. “There’s no right or wrong response. I’ve seen everything on the spectrum.” He doesn’t add how hard it can be for the ones who remain inconsolable.
There’s a slight shift in the air around them now, just a hair more tense. Small enough that people wouldn’t notice.
Most people—Jisung redirects the conversation.
“So,” he starts, his attention on Minho. “Chan-hyung’s the one who reached out and set all this up. Said he found your information on a flyer or something?”
Chan follows the new thread eagerly, flushing slightly as he nods. “Yeah, I saw it at the hospital. I… I don’t really know all the details, but I thought it might be… helpful?” He looks at Minho again, seeking approval; it seems like something he does a lot. Interesting that he’s seeking it from him and not Jisung, Minho thinks.
Minho shifts his gaze to Jisung, whose expression is skeptical but not unkind. “I’m not even really sure what a death doula is,” he admits.
Minho isn’t surprised. Most people don’t know—he didn’t know, until six years ago, when he suddenly found himself in a position not dissimilar to Chan’s.
He leans back against the couch cushions, raises his mug to his lips. “I help people die,” he says simply and takes a sip.
Jisung snorts softly. “I’m doing a great job of that all by myself.”
Chan chokes on his tea and looks at Jisung then Minho, horrified.
Minho’s lips twitch upward. “Not quite like that. A death doula supports people through the end-of-life process. I’m here to help you navigate what’s ahead, practically—emotionally. If that’s something you’re interested in.”
Chan interjects, “Is it like hospice?”
“Hospice focuses on medical care and pain management. I’m more about providing personal, emotional support,” Minho clarifies. “I have experience working with people of all ages, all backgrounds. Everyone’s different, but this has its own rhythm. I try to meet people where they are—help with making plans, having difficult conversations, creating moments of meaning. It’s not about curing or fixing, but about guiding and accompanying.” He watches Chan nod; Jisung remains expressionless. Minho takes another sip of his tea. It tastes like leaves. “I’m also trained to provide hands-on care, so that’s something we can include, if you’re interested.”
Chan’s eyes widen slightly. “Is that… normal? For the care to come from you, I mean?”
Minho understands the meaning behind the question. He lowers his mug to his lap. “Some people find it… comforting, to connect these two parts of the process.”
Chan looks a little relieved by the idea; Minho knows he’s been spearheading Jisung’s care and that they haven’t had other help—probably not ready for what it would truly mean to reach out to hospice.
Minho addresses his next words to Jisung. “But it’s perfectly understandable if you wish for the two to remain separate.”
Jisung just raises an eyebrow. “And people hire you to do this?”
“Not exactly,” Minho says. “We’re having a consultation right now to see if we’re a good fit. You’re deciding if you like my approach, if you feel comfortable with me, and I’m learning about you, your care, your needs. I also have to agree to take you on as a client. It’s a two-way relationship.”
“How many clients do you take on at one time?” Chan asks, curious.
“Just one. Other doulas might have a rotation, but I prefer a dedicated approach. This is… intimate work. It—you,” he amends, nodding to Jisung, “deserve my full attention.”
“And do…” Chan starts, then hesitates. “Do you ever—refuse people?”
“Sometimes,” Minho answers honestly. “If I don’t think I can help, or if it isn’t a good fit.”
“And what does that entail?” Chan asks, clearly nervous. “Being a good fit.”
Minho flicks his eyes to Jisung before answering. The other man merely blinks.
“Willingness mostly,” Minho says. “To talk. To be honest. This… it takes a lot of trust. Sometimes it’s messy, sometimes it takes time, but so long as we’re both open, both willing… we figure it out.” He directs this last part to Jisung. “Together.” He offers a gentle smile.
Jisung doesn’t return it.
“Any other questions?” he asks.
It’s quiet for a moment. Chan shifts in his seat and takes a sip of his tea, his cup nearly empty now. Minho adjusts his grip on his own, still mostly full, mug, flexing his fingers.
Eventually Jisung says, “Being a death doula… that’s not exactly a typical line of work.” The comment is curious—a bit judging, even.
“It’s not,” Minho easily agrees.
Jisung tilts his head. “What do your parents think of it?”
Minho blinks.
“Sung,” Chan scolds. “You can’t—you can’t just ask that.”
“Why not?” Jisung asks, utterly unperturbed. “I’m just curious. It couldn’t have been their first choice for what you’d do. Surely they have opinions on your career path.”
Minho recognizes the question for the test—the challenge, that it is.
“I wouldn’t know,” he says plainly, not breaking Jisung’s gaze. “They’re dead. Died in a car crash when I was eight.”
Jisung doesn’t so much as flinch.
Chan does though, a soft, strangled sound slipping from his throat.
“It was a long time ago,” he tells Chan, reassuring. “I was raised by my grandparents.”
Jisung’s expression hasn’t changed. “What do they think, then?”
“Jisung,” Chan admonishes again, sounding pained. Jisung only looks at Minho, expectant.
Minho just gives him a small, self-deprecating smile. “They’re dead too.”
Chan makes another pitiful noise, shoulders slumping, his whole face crumpling. He looks like a kicked puppy.
Minho’s not sure what Jisung looks like. It’s a beat before he says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Minho only dips his chin in acknowledgement.
A silence settles in the seconds that follow, charged, heavy. Minho isn’t bothered by it, rarely ever is.
Jisung isn’t either, it seems. Interesting.
Chan, however, clears his throat. “So,” he begins, the lightness in his tone forced. “Now that you’ve met us—or, met Jisung, rather—” he pauses to clear his throat again “—do… you think you could help him?” He’s looking at Minho with eyes that are wide and earnest. “That he’d be a good fit?”
Minho reaches forward to set his mug on the coffee table, angling for one of the coasters. They're circular, decorated with various Australian animals: a kangaroo, a koala, some chubby cheeked creature that isn’t quite a squirrel. It resembles Jisung, he thinks. Weird.
He chooses it.
“I’ve reviewed the information about Jisung’s needs and potential care schedule you sent me before,” he says. “Considering that and what I’ve learned today—yes.” He meets Jisung’s gaze again. “I believe I can.”
Chan smiles, pleased. “That’s good! I think this is good,” he says, turning to Jisung. “Don’t you think this will be good, Jisungie?”
Jisung doesn’t answer right away. He studies Minho, not trying to hide the assessment in his gaze, blatant and sharp. Minho feels exposed under the scrutiny. It’s oddly gratifying.
He stares right back.
He considers the dying boy before him—a man technically, but he looks too small, too frail to be called that. Other than his eyes, which look aged, much too solemn.
Minho had seen an old picture of him with Chan and a third boy hanging in the entryway. His eyes were brighter there, his face split in a wide smile. He was younger, an actual child in the photograph, but it was more than his age. He was incandescent—made beautiful by the carefree happiness of his youth.
He is still beautiful now, though it wouldn’t be appropriate for Minho to think about it.
He can’t quite get a read on Jisung as he looks at him. Strange, since he’s usually able to read people easily. Stranger, given the odd but definite pull he feels toward him.
Empathy, if he chalks it up to what Felix would probably say. Hyung, how can you have such a close relationship to death and the dying without feeling something?
But Minho doesn’t usually feel something—not in a long time, not about this. It’s one of the reasons he is good at his job; he can provide support to his charge without them taking on the burden of another’s emotions.
It’s also one of the reasons he does this work to begin with.
No, Minho usually doesn’t feel something. Not anymore. Not since—
He frowns slightly. Why—
“Yeah,” Jisung says, answering Chan but with his eyes still fixed on Minho. “I think this will be very good for me.”
He hands Chan his mug, wheeling away and mumbling something about getting a pen to sign the paperwork.
It feels significant somehow, Minho thinks, prophetic, that Jisung didn’t take a single sip of his tea.
#
Minho stands in front of the kitchen cabinet, marveling at the veritable pharmacy inside. There’s a whole host of painkillers, anti-nausea and seizure meds, sleep aids, vitamins… Not to mention the other medical supplies hidden away in a hall closet. (When Chan showed him, Minho had noted but quickly flicked his eyes away from a box of incontinence supplies.)
Beside him, Chan goes over each one of Jisung’s many medications: purpose, dosage, frequency. He speaks with the same careful precision he’d used to explain the color-coded calendar on the fridge detailing Jisung’s schedule and including all the relevant contacts for the various physicians and clinics—all information Minho will need as he takes over accompanying Jisung to his many appointments. It’s clear the act of explanation is as much to assure himself as inform Minho, anxious about this transfer of power, despite jumping at the chance to show Minho around Jisung’s apartment.
“There’s a couple more in the fridge. I also wrote out all the information on his meds here,” Chan says, using the bottle of Tylenol he’s holding to gesture to a handwritten spreadsheet taped on the inside of the cabinet. He flushes as he does, realizing he’s rendered his lengthy explanation moot.
“Thank you, this is very helpful. Everything is so organized,” Minho says, sensing the man needs the praise.
“Ah, well.” Chan scratches the back of his neck, the pink on his cheeks darkening. “It’s just what needs to be done.”
“You’ve been primarily handling Jisung’s care,” Minho probes gently as Chan closes the cabinet and steps toward the sink. He politely declines when Chan moves to pour himself some water and offers him a glass.
“Yes,” Chan confirms after taking a large sip. “I went to all his appointments with him and came over as much as I could to help with whatever else.”
Minho leans against the counter. “That must have been a lot.”
Chan merely shrugs. “Jisung couldn’t do this by himself. He needed—needs help.”
“So you stepped up.”
A self conscious laugh. Another shrug. “Someone had to.” At Minho’s raised eyebrows, he elaborates, “Jisung… he doesn’t have anyone else. His parents live abroad and they aren’t close. And he has a brother, but… they don’t get along either. He doesn’t really have any other family he’s close with. Other than me, I guess.” He downs another sip of water before placing his glass into the sink. “We grew up together—have been friends since I was three. Don’t ask me why I was friends with a newborn baby.” He laughs again, a bit more genuinely. “He’s always been like my little brother. Helping him, being there for him… it was never a question.”
And it really wouldn’t have been, Minho immediately understands. Not for someone like Chan.
How special that is—precious. Rarer than people might think. Minho’s seen it all in the years he’s been doing this work, how death changes things. Relationships with family, friends: dying—death warps them all. Death warps everything.
He tells Chan, “He’s lucky to have you.”
Chan shakes his head. “Luck has nothing to do with it. I love him,” he says, his voice cracking slightly.
Sweet, if naive, Minho thinks, to believe that’s the answer for everything.
“I’d keep doing it if not for work,” Chan near whispers. “I… they were—are understanding, but it’s been so long and—I’m not the one that’s sick and… with Sung not working as much, there’s just so much more to do.” Minho recalls how Chan mentioned that they work together: producing at some big company. Chan babbles on, “And—someone has to do it and if they’re not making him then…”
“I get it,” Minho interrupts softly.
Chan clears his throat, makes a face Minho realizes is one he’s probably using to keep from crying. “Anyways.” The word comes out overemphasized. He claps his hands, says seriously, “You’ll have to stay on top of Jisung.”
Minho’s brows pull together. “What do you mean?”
Chan sighs, even goes so far as to try and smile at Minho conspiratorially, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “He… he acts tough, you know? Like none of this bothers him—doesn’t scare him. But it does.” His eyes flick to the doorway before returning to Minho, his voice going lower. “He has these moments where he retreats into himself, gets really quiet. Depressed, even.”
“That’s not uncommon,” Minho says. Because it’s not, even if it does feel at odds with the bizarre indifference of the man he just met.
“Obviously,” Chan is quick to agree. “And… it’d make sense if it was like, I don’t know, something he let himself actually feel more regularly instead of just… fucking bottling it.” He pauses to scrape a frustrated hand over his face. “I’ve caught him lying to the doctors about how he’s really feeling, skimping out on his meds, skipping meals, full on skipping appointments if I’m not around to take him to them…” Chan trails off for a moment. Anxious worry drenches his words when he says, “He can’t… he can’t afford to keep doing that. Especially not now. There’s not… he doesn’t have a lot of time left, but you never know. They could find some new treatment, or maybe the chemo helps more this time, or—” He cuts himself off.
Minho studies Chan, noting the tension in his shoulders, the unconscious, almost frenetic way he keeps flexing his fingers. It isn’t just worry; it’s fear. Fear and something else. A refusal to let go. Minho’s seen it before.
“He already has a clock,” Chan finally says. “I don’t want him stopping it before it has to.”
Minho exhales quietly. He doubts Chan will be able to accept what’s coming.
“I know it’s hard, but you’re doing everything you can,” he tells him gently. He hesitates for a moment before adding, “It’s okay for you to lean on others too.”
Chan runs a hand through his hair, tugging on the black strands sharply. “No, you don’t… you don’t get it. It’s not about—I need you to stay on top of him. Make sure he’s taking his meds, going to his appointments, even when he acts like he’s fine. He’s good at pretending.” He grabs Minho’s hand, his grip sudden and urgent. “You can’t let him fool you.”
“I—I understand,” Minho says haltingly, surprised by Chan’s touch, the strength of it. “This… doing this work is important to me.”
“Good,” Chan says vehemently. His hand around Minho’s tightens. “Make him important to you too. Because if he starts pulling away, isolating himself, you can’t just let it slide. Push him. Even if he hates it. Even if he hates you.” He lets go of Minho’s hand, voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’d rather he be angry, so long as he’s still alive.”
“I assure you,” Minho says firmly, but not unkindly, “he’ll be in good hands. I’m a professional.”
Chan’s fierce expression weakens slightly. Whether from relief or fear he’d caused an insult with his words, Minho doesn’t know. He seems about to say something more, his mouth opening—
A different voice speaks. “I got it from here, hyung. You can go.”
Minho and Chan’s heads both whip to the kitchen door, where Jisung’s suddenly materialized. He’s no longer in the wheelchair; Minho’s learned he doesn’t always use it.
(“There’s nothing actually wrong with his legs,” Chan had clarified when Minho asked, “Sometimes he just just feels really weak and dizzy, especially when chemo’s going. It took me forever to convince him to use it. Even longer to get him to let me push him in it.”)
Minho takes in this new impression of Jisung. He’s slightly shorter than Minho, and looks even frailer now that he can see him without the blanket. He’s still wearing the pink beanie, a few black tufts poking out from underneath it.
Minho notes his big brown eyes again, as well as the curve of his neck and the soft roundness of his cheeks. When Jisung waves at them with the stack of papers in his hand, Minho blinks.
“You can go,” Jisung repeats. “I can finish up with Minho on my own.”
“You sure?” Chan asks, hesitant. He glances at Jisung then back at Minho. “I can—”
“I’m sure,” Jisung says, his voice firm. “Thanks for everything today,” he adds, more warmly.
Chan’s lips press into a thin line. A moment passes before he nods. “Alright.” He attempts a smile.
He walks past Jisung, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Call me if you need anything, yeah?”
Jisung hums affirmatively and leans in slightly to the other man’s touch. “Bye, Channie.”
He stays standing in the doorway, staring at Minho. It isn’t until the front door opens and shuts that he drops his gaze and sighs deeply.
“He’s taken all of this really hard,” Jisung says, stepping into the kitchen. He’s still holding the paperwork. Minho doesn’t reach for it, nor does Jisung move to give it to him.
“He said you’re like a brother to him.”
Jisung lets out a dry laugh and shakes his head. “Maybe I used to be, but these days it feels more like I’m his kid.”
He sets the papers on the counter. Minho can see his loopy blue-inked signature.
“He’s always been this way,” Jisung continues, crossing his arms and leaning one hip against the counter. “Toeing that line of father figure and older brother. Even did it with Changbin.”
“Changbin?”
Jisung jerks his head back, motioning to the framed photo on the wall behind him. “Our friend,” he says as Minho again takes in the image.
Three small boys, smiling wide for the camera. They’re at a beach, sand in their hair, the hint of a sunburn on their cheeks.
“He… he died a year after that picture,” Jisung adds, softly. “He got stung by a bee and went into anaphylactic shock. No one even knew he was allergic.”
Fuck. Minho blinks taken aback. “I’m so sorry.”
Jisung just shrugs. He swallows. “It’s… that’s why I think this—me… why it’s so hard for him. He already lost one friend. Now he’s losing another.”
The unfortunate truth of Jisung’s words hang heavy in the space around them. They both stare at the photograph for another quiet, tense moment.
“It’s hard,” Minho starts carefully, “but, it’s also a beautiful thing. To have people that care for you, love you so deeply that they’re there for you during life’s challenges.”
“Is it?” Jisung asks. “A beautiful thing?” He looks at Minho, almost defiantly.
Minho frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I think it just makes it harder,” Jisung says. “I feel shitty enough for dying.” His attention returns to the picture, staring hard at Changbin. “Knowing I’m leaving people behind just makes me feel guilty.”
#
“So, how’d the consult go yesterday?” Felix asks the following evening. He’s at Minho’s for their weekly dinner hangout, an open bottle of Corona in one hand and smiling mischievously at the fanned out cards in his other.
Minho takes a moment to consider his own cards first: a couple face cards, two ones, a three. He goes for the multiple. “Got any ones?” When Felix shakes his head, lifting the beer to his lips, Minho sighs dramatically and swipes a card from the stack on the floor between them before he can even say, “Go fish.”
“It was good,” Minho answers, after adding the card to his hand. A two of hearts,* nothing he needs at the moment, but ah, well. Maybe it’ll come in handy later.
“Just good?” Felix prompts. “Any threes?” he adds.
“Bastard.”
Felix laughs brightly as Minho hands over the card. He lays the completed book on the age-softened wood of Minho’s back deck before them and takes a long swig of his beer, eyes on Minho, waiting for a better answer.
“He’s…” Minho thinks of how to describe Jisung.
Reserved, a bit mysterious, super intense in a way that’s kind of confusing. There’s a heavy air of… something around him. Sadness maybe, but also not quite. Something… thicker—sticker. Something that threatens to pull Minho in.
“He seems nice enough,” he settles on. “A little aloof, might be doing this more because of his friend, but… I feel like he’s open to it.”
“Yeah?” Felix asks, not looking at Minho, back to considering his cards. It’s not even his turn yet.
“Yeah,” Minho says, remembering the way Jisung had stared at him, the quiet, deliberate consideration on his face. I think this will be very good for me. The memory raises the hair on the back of his neck. He twitches. “Or, he said so, anyway.” (He doesn’t mention anything about what Chan said. You’ll need to stay on top of Jisung.) He takes a quick sip of his drink to wet his lips. “Any queens?”
“Go fish.”
Minho squints at Felix before taking a card from the stack: ace of spades.* He snorts. The universe isn’t subtle. He tucks it in beside his other ace, hoping he finds the remaining two before Felix.
“That’s good he’s open to it,” Felix says, seeming in no hurry to take his turn. “Remember that time you had a guy who literally was only doing it to appease his wife?”
“I don’t believe in any of this new age emotional fairy bullshit, so don’t try to sell it to me,” Minho quotes.
“God yeah,” Felix mutters under a laugh. He shifts himself into a cross-legged position and puts his hands behind him, leaning back on the deck. He raises his freckled face to the setting sun. “You caring for him too, on top of the new age emotional fairy bullshit?”
“Mmhm.” Minho gives a pointed look to Felix’s cards. The other man rolls his eyes, but picks them up. As he considers them, Minho elaborates, “He’s starting up chemo again soon—he doesn’t drive, so I’ll take him to that and whatever other appointments. Give him his meds too. And he also needs, like, general help. Some cooking, cleaning, errands.”
“So the whole kit and caboodle.”
Minho hums in agreement. “It was just his friend doing it all before.” Answering the question in Felix’s raised eyebrow he adds, “No family around. For either of them, it seems.”
“A lot of shit for one person to manage.”
“Yeah.” Minho tongues the inside of his cheek. “If they’re not like me, anyway.”
Trained—professional, is how Felix will interpret it. A much more favorable reasoning than what Minho actually means.
“Impressive he was doing that,” Felix admits. “Any fours?”
Minho gestures to the fish pond before nodding his head in agreement. “Oh fuck you, Yongbok,” he spits, when he lays down another completed book.
Felix smiles, sticking out his tongue and wiggling his shoulders. “Tell me more about him,” he demands, leaning back again on his elbows.
Minho sets his cards down for a moment; he’s losing anyway, he can take a break. He picks up his Corona, thumbing at the condensation on the bottle as he considers what to say.
“He’s a producer,” he shares eventually. “Kind of a hot shot actually. His friend too—I guess they work together.”
“Oh cool! Anything I’d know?” Minho shrugs and Felix scoffs lightly. “Right, of course you don’t know. You’re so out of touch, hyung. You’re like the troll who lives under the bridge.” He squeals and dodges Minho’s attempt to smack him. “Okay, fine! Tell me something else. Where’s he from?”
“He was born here, but then his family moved to Australia. He moved back here when he was seventeen for university. I guess his friend came first, then he followed him—they’re really close.”
“Cute.”
“Mm.” He purses his lips, thinking of what else to say. After a few seconds, he settles on, “He’s 27.”
Felix lets out a low whistle. “Fuck, same age as me.”
“Yeah. I think your birthdays are only a day apart actually.”
“That's…” Felix starts but doesn’t finish. Minho stares at him and tilts his head. Felix sits up and fingers a strand of his hair, recently dyed back to black after nearly six years of being bleached. Minho’s still not used to it. “Surprising,” Felix eventually says.
“Why?” Minho wipes the moisture on his fingers against his jeans. He picks his cards up again but doesn’t yet decide his next play.
“You usually work with older people.”
“Everyone dies, Yongbok-ah,” Minho says. “Death doesn’t discriminate by age.”
Felix rolls his eyes. “I know that, you philosophical asshat.”
“That’s no way to speak to your hyung.”
“Sorry, sorry. I know that, philosophical asshat-nim.”
Minho raises his fist and shakes it threateningly. “Any sixes?” He smiles, saccharine, when Felix hands over the last one he needs for a book. “Anyways,” he says, “that’s not true. I was hired by that rich family that one time, remember? For the girl with leukemia.”
“Oh right.” Felix’s face transforms, mouth turning down. “That was so fucking sad. Didn’t she draw you a bunch of pictures?”
She had. Minho still has one of a cat framed above the desk in his office.
“Still,” Felix continues—presses and pries, really—after he takes his turn. “It’s… it’s a bit uncommon. You usually don’t take on people our age.”
His tone is curious, deceptively light. Minho senses a shift in the conversation. He straightens slightly. There’s a bit of an edge to his own voice when he says, quietly, “I don’t actively avoid it.”
He looks at Felix, who is looking at him, brown eyes wide, bottom lip between his teeth. He hesitates before saying, “You know… twenty-seven is the same age he’d—”
“Don’t.”
A metamorphosis of emotions erupts across Felix’s face. “Hyung,” he practically pleads.
Minho never knew there could be so many layers crammed into one word. Concern the most prominent.
He just shakes his head. Felix knows better than to talk about that.
“Got any aces?” He’s staring down at his cards, but he can feel Felix’s eyes trained on him. After a long minute, he sighs, used to Minho’s avoidant antics.
“Go fish.”